Jean Rabe - Death March

A cheer went up.

Direfang shot past the priest, grimacing with each step, his twisted leg still agonizing. He should have ordered the goblins back when he spotted the first one slipping into the garden.

In a heartbeat he reached Pippa, furiously plucking her up and hurling her over his shoulder back into the crowd of goblins who were moving into the garden. Olabode went next, landing at Leftear’s feet, and Direfang threw a potbellied goblin hard into Saro-Saro, knocking the old clan leader down.

“Enough!” Direfang raged at the mob, spittle flying from his lips. A handful edged forward, knives out and ready to challenge him. A goblin called Knobnose looked defiant. But the hobgoblin did not back down. He slammed his fist into Knobnose’s throat and grabbed a small goblin who had rushed in, picking her up and tossing her over the heads of the front line. “I said no killing! No more! Fighting these dwarves-women and babies-is tainted blood. Only weak and stupid goblins draw tainted blood.”

He picked up another goblin, threatening to throw him too, and the crowd stopped moving. Some stared in disbelief that Direfang would threaten his kinsmen; some mumbled that his words made sense. Finally he released the goblin and shoved him away, keeping one eye on the crowd as he turned back to the priest and the old dwarf.

“Skull man, are these all the dwarves left in the village?”

The priest had a quick exchange with the woman. “No. She says there are a few in the homes, babies and a sick old man. She’s worried that-”

“Other dwarf lied! No more men in the village, that dwarf claimed.” Direfang beckoned to Boliver.

“No more men that could stand up to you, she says,” Horace continued. “Only one very sick man, and old, and she cautions you that-”

Direfang said to Boliver, “Gather some clansmen and search the homes.” Then he pointed to the hobgoblin Rustymane, who still carried Graytoes. “You. Search the homes, and take food, weapons, anything useful. Leave the women no weapons. Gather sacks for carrying.” He paused and stared at the dwarves still circling the stone anvil. “Take everything. Everything! But no killing. No more blood. Swear it!”

“No blood,” Rustymane agreed. The hobgoblin nodded to the goblins surrounding him, most of them light brown members of the Fishgatherer clan. They followed him as he headed toward the nearest home, chattering excitedly.

“No blood, Direfang,” Boliver repeated. “No more killing. Only taking.” He repeated the command in the human tongue for the benefit of the Dark Knights, and he selected several of his clansmen and scurried off. “Take everything!”

“Everything!” they echoed.

The dwarves had started praying again, their voices shaky with fear. Direfang heard Horace talking in the unknown tongue again. From his expression, the priest was trying to reassure the ancient female dwarf who appeared to be the leader of the small band of survivors.

Saro-Saro had picked himself up and was scowling at Direfang. A line of drool spilled over the cagey old goblin’s lip, and he glared menacingly at the hobgoblin. Then his expression softened, and he awkwardly bowed, acknowledging Direfang’s leadership. But when Saro-Saro turned and went back to his clan, the harshness returned to his eyes.

“Flamegrass!” Direfang shouted, instantly capturing the attention of the orange-skinned goblins belonging to that clan. “The gardens are yours. Find sacks and blankets, anything to put the harvest in.” He glanced at the priest. “Are there animals? There must be. Skull man, ask the dwarves where the animals are.”

There was another quick exchange between the priest and the old woman.

“Foreman,” answered Horace, “she says there are pens south of the homes. They keep quite a few goats and-”

“Goats!” blurted Truak, a hobgoblin nearly as tall as Direfang. He knew only a few human words, but goats was one of his favorites. “Goats taste good! Big, bloody goats!”

“Slay half of the goats,” Direfang ordered Truak, clapping him on the shoulder. “Spikehollow, make sure only half the goats are killed. The old goblins will eat, then the others.”

“Only half the goats?” Truak sounded disappointed. “Can’t slay all?”

“Half,” Spikehollow said firmly. “Direfang will save the other half for later.”

Truak grinned and thumped his fist against his chest. “Yes. It will be good to have goats now and goats later. Direfang is wise.”

Direfang wasn’t done delegating the many tasks that were necessary. He eyed the mass of goblins, registering the ones with hostile expressions; those he would remember and dress down later. He picked three young goblins and pointed to the trees.

“See to the dead,” he told the three. “Take the wizard and make sure only the goblins burn. The dwarves can bury their men later or do whatever it is dwarves do with the dead.” Direfang repeated his instructions in the human tongue, so Grallik would understand.

The wizard started after the goblin funeral detail, Kenosh following his fellow former Dark Knight.

“Only the wizard,” Direfang said.

An unsmiling Kenosh returned to Horace’s side as the priest continued to converse with the old dwarf, calming her.

Saro-Saro fumed silently as he watched all the activity, narrowing his eyes on Direfang as the hobgoblin limped toward the stone anvil. That his clansmen, save for Spikehollow, were given no important duties in the village was a serious insult to him. It was as if Direfang had physically struck Saro-Saro. The old clan leader growled from deep in his belly as Direfang stepped between a pair of goblin children and approached the big stone.

“What do?” one of Saro-Saro’s clansmen asked him, sidling up to him. “What do here?”

Saro-Saro wiped at the drool that clung to his lips. “Nothing do here now. Do nothing but wait.”

“Wait?”

Saro-Saro nodded. Wait and plan, he mouthed. “Wait and watch Direfang,” he whispered.

Even close to the stone, Direfang could not read the writing carved on it. “Priest?”

“I cannot read it either, Foreman. It is Dwarvish and from the looks of it quite old.”

“Make the woman read it, then. I want to know what it says.”

The priest shrugged, touching the old dwarf’s shoulder and turning her so she could face the anvil. She glared defiantly at the hobgoblin. But Horace implored her to do what Direfang wanted, and breathed a sigh of relief when she whispered the words she read. Horace translated.

“The anvil is an altar, Foreman, carved by her ancestors when this village was founded. The original settlers were miners, for gems, I understand. When a quake rocked this part of the mountain range a few hundred years ago, and subsequently brought down the caverns they lived in, they took it as a sign from Reorx. They moved aboveground and for the most part became farmers or herders.”

Direfang snorted. “In a few hundred years, one would think there would be more dwarves than this in this place. Dwarves must breed slowly.”

“Some moved away, obviously,” Horace said dryly.

“Because Reorx said to?” Direfang scoffed. He raised his hand to touch the top of the altar, his gesture drawing gasps from the female dwarves.

“Ask where this ‘Cradle’ sits in the mountains. How far from Steel Town is it, does she know? How far is it to the sea where the range wraps around the shore like a fishhook? Ask the woman those things, skull man.”

Direfang was not pleased with the terse answers of the wary dwarf woman. His army had perhaps weeks of travel ahead of them to reach the border of ogre lands, she said, and even longer to reach the swamp.